Dust
by Kat's in the cradle
Summary: "Her chest fluttered with the insane, utterly beautiful idea that he was happy because of her." Mac/Stella, post/filler 6.22-Point of View


A/N: Because this episode left a bad taste in my mouth. Rating for a couple of bad words.  
Summary: "Her chest fluttered with the insane, utterly beautiful idea that he was happy because of her." Mac/Stella  
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, not making any money off of this story, just borrowing them for funsies, etc.  
**Spoilers**: 6.22 _Point of View_

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**Dust**

Stella sat in her office, muscling through an intimidating stack of paperwork. The text was rapidly becoming fuzzier as time passed, and it was with heavy eyes that she spared a glance at the clock on the wall. She wondered briefly how time could drag so slowly.

The sound of her Blackberry buzzing across her desktop snapped her out of her exhausted daze. She didn't know whether to welcome the reprieve or regret the stall to finishing her work.

"Bonasera," she answered, struggling not to sound as tired as she felt.

"Stella," through the phone, Flack sounded panicky. "It's Mac. He's hurt."

"What?" she jumped out of her chair, nearly knocking it over in her haste. "Is he okay? Flack, what happened?" She scooped her keys from the desk, chest seized tight in fear. Her thoughts were scrambled, and she knew she should attempt to remain calm and controlled, but all she could think about was hurrying. It seemed that he took forever to respond.

"He-he fell. Or was pushed. I dunno, Stel, he was really out of it when the paramedics took him away," Flack's words seemed disjointed, and his uncertainty and worry caused Stella to become even more frantic. He wouldn't call for a scrape or a bruise.

She barely registered Flack's fast, agitated voice relaying to her the hospital address. Her heels clicked loudly through empty hallways as she hurried out of the lab, to the parking garage.

She used the remote on her key-chain to unlock the Avalanche door, closing the door shut with an unnecessary amount of force, the sound reverberating, echoing throughout the large, cavernous parking garage. She blinked away the stinging in her eyes, slamming the heel of her hand against the steering wheel.

She couldn't count the number of times she had felt this trepidation, the rolling wave of nausea that would start in her stomach and rumble to the back of her throat, leaving an acrid taste in the back of her throat. There had been too many late-night calls, overnight stays in the hospital, terse ambulance rides.

As she twisted the key in the ignition, and the Chevy rumbled to life, she thought to herself that it never got any easier, no matter how many times the breath was stolen from her lungs, or her heart jumped to her throat, insistent and unyielding.

She pulled into the traffic, attempting to rein in her desire to drive with reckless abandon; city of New York, be damned.

With a bitter look of disgust at the towering buildings surrounding her, she thought to herself, _"You did this to him."_

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Learning Mac would be fine, that he'd live to put her through this once again, did nothing to mitigate the lingering fear and renewed appreciation for life-his life. It made her want to be around him. She felt dry and parched, her worry having left her barren. She had an irrational urge to remain in his presence indefinitely, drinking him in until she was satiated and no longer felt so empty.

He had given her a wry half-smile when she'd walked into his hospital room.

"Stella, what're you doing here?" His voice had been gravelly.

Her laughter had been strained, and she hoped he did not recognize how close the sound came to a sob. "Making sure you're alright. So I can kill you later."

His small chuckle turned into a groan of pain, and she clenched her fists tightly because each time he toed this line, he stole a part of her. She felt like she'd been slowly and methodically chipped away at and was nothing more than a crumbled pile of dust on the floor.

But it was all worth it to see his bright eyes when he said, "I'm glad you came."

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Stella thought she might be okay.

She visited him in his apartment. He was bored and restless, but they found their easy camaraderie, and she looked forward to seeing him. He made her smile, made her laugh. She found that she missed him at the office and refused to ruminate on when her happiness had become so entwined with being near to Mac Taylor.

So she brought him food. They watched movies, shared jokes, stories. They had always been close, but having him on a forced leave of absence due to his injuries had transformed Mac. The toils of the job, of running the crime lab were not weighing on his mind. He was funny and charming and so _goddamn_ perfect.

A small, tentative part of her dared to hope that his new demeanor was not only due to his break of the lab. Her chest fluttered with the insane, utterly beautiful idea that he was happy because of her.

The last thing Stella expected was to have this rapport interrupted, shattered by the return of Peyton.

Stella felt as though she'd been dropped, kicked aside like she hadn't been his best friend, his confidante, for years. When Peyton, the one woman he had opened himself to romantically since the tragic loss of his wife, had dumped him with a perfunctory "Dear John" letter, Stella had been unassuming, encouraging.

She had been his _friend_.

She knew it was wrong to expect anything from her unconditional support of Mac. She knew a truly altruistic friend would give and give and want nothing in return.

But watching him openly laugh with Peyton, with their touches and furtive glances, Stella felt a small kernel of resentment lodge deep in her chest. She felt like she had been taken for granted. She was once again that forsaken pile of dust, scared to death that a woeful wind would pass by and scatter her into oblivion, so that no amount of searching could ever recover all of her pieces.

But she wouldn't say anything-couldn't say anything-precisely because she was his best friend, had helped him through the toughest moments of his life. The reasons that justified her speaking up were the very reasons that kept her silently mourning.

She was his best friend.

She cared too much.

And he looked so damn happy with Peyton.

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A/N: I apologize for this story. =] But feel free to speak your mind by reviewing, if you'd like.


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